


What Have They Done To My Song, Ma?

by god_Zilla



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blood, Ficlet, Fluff, Frerard, M/M, MCR, Major character death - Freeform, Short, Singing, Smut, frank iero - Freeform, gerard way - Freeform, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2518619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/god_Zilla/pseuds/god_Zilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well it’s the only thing I could do all right, and they turned it upside down, look what they’ve done to my song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Have They Done To My Song, Ma?

**Author's Note:**

> hey this is just a short ficlet based off a song by Melanie called What Have They Done To My Song, Ma, you should totally check it out it's awesome s

He had the most beautiful of voices. He sang like an angel, in bed (in more ways than one,) at work, in the car, when he was sick and when he was well. He sang when we met, he sang at our wedding and now he sings as he dies in my arms.

**358 W 15th St, New York City**

“The water is wide, I cannot get o’er  
And neither have I wings to fly.  
O go and get me some little boat,  
To carry o’er my true love and I.”

Frank opened his eyes. His clock read that it was too early to be awake. Not for him. His ears were graced with the sound that had woken him in the first place. His mind ran over the occurances that went by before Frank had fallen asleep. The guy who constantly visited his antique store had agreed to come back to Frank’s after a date. They kissed, they fucked. Frank didn’t tell him he was involved in a huge crime “company”. He was a ruthless killer yet he couldn’t keep away from this angel.

He sighed, clearing his throat and lying back on the bed, with Gerard curled up in his side, head resting on his stomach as he traced invisible patterns in Frank’s bare thighs, singing gently. He always sang as he looked around in Frank’s antiques store when he visited. It truly was angelic and Frank couldn’t ignore it. Gerard sang wordless songs for him the night before with his legs around Frank’s waist, and again, muffled with his face in the pillow. And then when he was alone in the shower afterwards. Frank daren’t sing along for fear of ruining the sound as it was. 

**Present time**

  
Gerard is bleeding. They shot him and cut him before I could get to him. I fucking hate myself, I promised my angel that I would protect him and keep him safe and he would be singing for me by the time we got home and I failed him. I failed this angel when he never failed me. He sang for me in sickness and in health and it kept me alive. It gave me will to kill those men so I could live and hear his voice, each time possibly the last time. He never failed me and I failed him. I hate myself.

**Chapel of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary, New York City**

**303 E 33rd St**

“…A-down in the meadows the other day  
A-gath’ring flow’rs both fine and gay  
A-gath’ring flowers, both red and blue,  
I little thought what love could do.”

They’d just married and were holding a reception. Gerard knows about Frank’s mob. He knows the dangers and he knows Frank loves him and would die before he allowed anyone to hurt him. He sings now in front of Frank’s “family” (his biological mother abandoned him as a child and he has since not wished to make any connections with the people with whom he shares blood.)

Gerard has silenced the entire reception with is angelic voice. Frank blinks away tears, unable to cry in front of the Family. He is the Don.

That night, Frank gets Gerard to sing for him. No sex, just laying sleepily, half-intoxicated, dazed out with Gerard humming quietly in his ear, both of them stripped of their wedding suits, chests pressed close and warm. It’s what they both know so well and could never wish for anything else. To be a part would be taking away an asthmatic’s inhaler during an attack. He is a muse. He is Frank’s singing muse.

**Present time**

  
“I put my hand into one soft bush,  
Thinking the sweetest flow’r to find.  
I prick’d my finger to the bone  
And left the sweetest flow’r alone.”

I’m removing the gag they put in him and kissing my angel’s broken neck. He has pleading eyes. No- not pleading, not even in this minute of death does he ask of anything from me. He knows he is dying and he’s not asking me to stop him. He is pleading for me to live my life. I shake my head. What is a life without your muse? Without an angelic voice as my angel’s, everything will be white noise. Not even murdering the bastards who hurt him could bring me contentment in a world without the body, the angel that has my heart.

His throat is punctured and he should no longer sing for me but he is singing, his voice is rasping but it is melodic. It’s coming from him and it’s all that I could ever wish for. I can see in his eyes that all his suffering heart wishes to do is to sing for me, to pleasure my ears one last time. I tell him, lying, I don’t need that in these moments. I tell him again and again how much I love him and I can hear his eyes telling me that he loves me too, over and over until it fades to silence as his honey eyes turn dull.

I take the gravel from the ground beneath him and put it in my mouth. What better way to die than to choke on the words and the actions that could have saved your songbird, the one who could never shut his mouth and muffle the angelic sound? I never joined in the singing and I won’t in death. I swallow the gravel, the stones cutting my throat and clogging in my windpipe. I choke gruesomely over my angel, I think I’ll probably go to hell, I do belong there for letting something as precious as Gerard get damaged. As long as my angel ends up where he belongs, I’ll suffer the ninth circle of hell just fine knowing my angel is safe at least in death, singing for everyone. I won’t hear it, I don’t deserve that, but I’m happy for all of the people who will be graced with my muse’s singing.


End file.
